


On my last legs

by nightfall_in_winter



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Christmas Special, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, rubbish with tags as always :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-16 06:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfall_in_winter/pseuds/nightfall_in_winter
Summary: A strange Christmas tale in two parts :) A gift for my favourite fairy tale lovers. <3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElliBellybutton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliBellybutton/gifts), [etal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/gifts), [clementizing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clementizing/gifts).



It’s been many years since anyone had set foot in the old house around the corner. The overgrown sycamore tree covers one side of its cracked façade. It is obvious that it had a double trunk once but now only one part of it is still standing and covering the murky cast iron windows. In the past, magnificent branches, shrouded in a canopy of dense foliage, cast long shadows over the arch of the front door and the grape cornice, but now there is nothing. It is as if a cruel giant has torn off the left half of the tree and let the resin tears dry over the rough edges of the exposed trunk.

Locals say that a gifted furniture maker lived here long ago, and his parents planted the sycamore tree in the front garden when he was born. It grew with him and stood through the seasons, covered in beautiful colours in the autumn or wrapped in a white coating of snow in the winter.

The furniture maker was well known for his beautiful work. Mahogany sideboards, hand-carved dressers and stylish country oak tables drew admiring gasps from people who walked past his shop window in the Old Town.

After the love of his life left him, he lost most of his skills and was unable to make a good furniture piece again for the rest of his days. He drowned his sorrows in alcohol and spent many fruitless days and sleepless nights in his dusty workshop in the basement of the old house. Sometimes he was angry, sometimes he just surrendered to sadness and wept in the darkness. Certain elements in his work occasionally turned out well and served as a reminder of his true talent but others were so bad, his pieces became unsellable. Always half-hearted and defective. Incomplete.

One dark and lonely afternoon when the torment and self-hatred were unbearable, he ordered the sycamore tree to be cut down. “Start with the trunk on the left” he said. _And finish with me, can’t live with that crushing pain inside anymore_ , he added to himself holding his chest. He only sobered up when the job was half-done, and parts of the tree had already fallen in the sticky mud.  In vain search for his lost flair, he made a misshapen table from the pale white sycamore timber. It was the most hideous thing ever. In his rare moments of clarity, he managed to make two lovely, identical, well-polished legs but the other two seemed comically mismatched to them. One was sturdy, thick and longer than all other legs and the other was thin and delicate, for it was made from the top part of the tree where the branches were young and stringy. In the furniture maker’s mind, all of them had different personalities and came to life in the night, spoke to each other, argued, loved and suffered, just like real people.

One evening when he felt restless and feverish, he wrote some letters on the legs with his carpentry pencil. The thin one was **T,** the sturdy one was **A** and two perfect ones were **L** and **E**.* Of course, he wanted to spell **TABLE** , but such fine details were too much for his wine poisoned brain. When he realised his mistake, he laughed bitterly and chucked his ugly creation in the dark attic, never to be seen again.

He was found dead in his armchair on a cold Christmas morning when a kind old neighbour popped in with some mince pies. All the candles have burned out and the empty fireplace in the living room stood lifeless and unused…

***

“Just drop it, **E.** **“ A** said in his deep, throaty voice and sighed with disapproval. “You’ll never leave this attic.”

“What do you know about it, **A**? The world needs to see us.” By us, of course, she meant **L** and herself, for she couldn’t even imagine being seen with anyone who looked less than perfect.

Oh, yes. The furniture maker was right all along. They spoke. And quarrelled. And felt. A drunkard he was, but he wasn’t crazy.

“You wait and see” **E** squeaked. “One day someone will find us and take us out of here. And we will be dressed in the most luxurious tablecloth and taken to the best tea parties. And they will put the tastiest cream scones, sugar bird cookies and liquorice tea on us…**”

“On ME actually…” **A** was right. He was the longest and the thickest, so he carried all the weight. But **A** also knew there was no point to argue with **E**. Or **L,** for that matter. They were beautifully made but empty inside and spent all their time discussing silly things such as the shade of the wood stain their saviour was going to put on them before presenting their beauty to the world. **E** was convinced that Texas Ash was the best option, **L** preferred French Oak.**

“But we are all sycamore. Even when _**we feel tremendous ambiguity in the self-identity department.**_ *** ” **T** would occasionally say and laugh hysterically. **A** had never heard a more endearing sound. **T** was young and didn’t even look like a table leg at all, but he was the wisest and spoke so eloquently. **T** talked about art and deep meanings, love and pain and was convinced that there was more to life of a table leg. He felt sorry for the two beautiful, shallow ladies who couldn’t see beyond their vacuous dreams of gold velvet and party canapes. **L** & **E** thought he was mad.

“Quiet, someone is coming.” **L** hissed, and **T** ’s laughter stopped instantly.

“We are saved.” Was this **E** ’s short, excited shriek or the attic door?

They all saw messy curls, bruised knees and a pair of curious sage green eyes. It was a lanky boy, probably about 7 years old, with the scent of the fresh grass on his skin and pockets full of everyday treasures – twigs, boiled sweets and several cat’s eye marbles. He was such a perplexing sight. Like a vision from a different world, miraculously placed between the charcoal cobwebs and the walnut bookcases covered in decades of dust and oblivion.

He was the new owners’ son – a sweet, smart and energetic child. **A** & **T** liked him instantly, but **L** & **E** soon realised he wasn’t their dream rescuer and drifted away in their imagined party venues with opulent chandeliers and a rich assortment of cakes.

The boy came again the day after and sat on the floor with his back leaning on **A**. He blew the dust off an old book and started reading. Hesitantly at first but his confidence grew. First Puss-in-Boots. Then Beauty and The Beast. Babes in the Wood. Jack and the Beanstalk. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. Always hungry about good stories and new knowledge, **T** soaked in every word. Later, the stories returned to the lonely afternoons in the attic reiterated by the small table leg. How did he remember all the details? How could he add these funny little moments to make them even more interesting? How could he always make them his own?

On a cool autumn day, the dishevelled head and the mischievous smile of the boy warmed up the attic again. But this time he wasn’t alone. He brought a friend – a tall, blue-eyed youngster with a cheesecloth shirt and a shy smile. His golden-brown hair was cut short with a cowlick dropping over at the front. They half-whispered some scary stories before playing hide-and-seek, the long legs of the taller boy sticking out behind the old bookcase and causing uncontrollable laughing in his cheeky playmate.

Since that day, the boy was rarely alone in the attic.

 **A** & **T** called them Boy 1 and Boy 2 and were looking forward to their visits. The boys would read together or chat about swims in the river and croquet. As the time passed, the fairy tales slowly gave way to Robinson Crusoe, The Three Musketeers and Journey to the Centre of The Earth. They would play explorers and pirates and re-enact legendary journeys covered in old blankets and silly feather hats stolen from grandma’s dresser. Later, the adventures were replaced by Lord of the Flies and The Catcher in the Rye. Sometimes they would stay in silence after dramatic paragraphs or they’d argue passionately before eventually agreeing on important messages. **T** was really inspired, and his stories became even more vivid and fascinating much to **L** & **E** ’s disapproval. They just couldn’t understand why serious **A** was so fond of the boys or little **T** and his stupid narratives.

 **A** listened quietly, year after year and one day he realised that he never wanted to leave the attic. All that he wanted was to listen to skinny, wobbly **T** forever. Burly and robust **A** knew that it was impossible, but he dreamed of being released from his screws only to go a few steps to his left. He wanted to touch **T** ’s pale, slim and imperfect physique and stay close to him for all eternity. It was sweeter to him than anything. Even the lonely eye of the attic window that caught the last pale sunrays during the short winter days and glistened like a luminous pearl.

***

Boy 1 and Boy 2 stood up after their play fight, rosy cheeks and silly grins and **A**  saw that they both reached the roof now. And that their laughter was as cute as ever but the voices that read from the old pages have turned deeper. Big hands now flipped through the books with beautiful poems that echoed in **A** ’s lonely heart.

 ** _“What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?_** ”****

Boy 1 left Baudelaire’s wisdom on the floor and looked Boy 2 in the eye. Long, trembling fingers traced the cowlick, the nose and the sweet dimple under it.

 **A** & **T** knew this was something new and so, so precious…

And then it happened. Boy 1 cupped Boy 2’s chin and their soft lips melted together between whispered endearments. The sweet daze lasted for one glorious moment before Boy 2 pulled back and pushed Boy 1 with a shocked and angry expression.

“What on Earth are you doing?!”

“I am sorry…I…didn’t…You are…so…beautiful…I…”

Boy 2 disappeared quickly recoiling in disgust, leaving Boy 1 on the floor, leaning on the knee wall and wiping his face with his sleeve.

And without having hearts (or so they thought) **A** & **T** instantly knew that this was what heartbreak felt like…

 

To be continued….

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * OK, we all know what these letters stand for, don't we?  
> ** Cream scones, bird cookies, Texas ash and French oak are self-explanatory but I wanted to have a chuckle. :)  
> ***This is a real extract from an interview with Timmy for Metro UK (Feb 2018)  
> ****Baudelaire, Paris spleen


	2. Chapter 2

The surviving part of the sycamore tree still shelters a pack of garrulous birds in the spring and soft cooling winds in the summer. Each season goes faster than the one before and almost nothing changes in the attic. It is forever haunted by old stories settling over the dusty cobwebs. Lost words and captured souls creep over the bookcase, released from the pages. The blueish horn of the moon peeks through the attic window at harvest time. The frost flower lace covers the glass on those snowy January mornings. And the unmistakable voice of Boy 1, now a young man, fills up the musty space with echoes of past lives, memories, dreams and despondency.

Almost nothing.

 **L** & **E** still harboured dreams of elegant events but were less vocal about these now. **A** was mostly quiet too as his love for **T** was making him feel weak and exposed every time when he jumped inside at **T** ’ s sweet laughter. But he listened and listened, always eager to hear **T** ’s stories and drifted away imagining how he’d support **T** ’s tiny frame and say lovely words to him. And how he’d rub him gently just above his swirl pattern where the wood chisel has slipped to make a dent. That small hollow where Boy 1 would occasionally prop up a sad book, so he could hide his face in his elbow. Always alone after that “disgusting moment”, as described by **L** & **E**. What did they know? **A** thought with annoyance and occasional pity.  

For **A** & **T** it was a treasured memory they recollected with fondness and a touch of sorrow. They sensed Boy 1’s despair and the slight changes in his reading voice every time when a story reminded him of joyful times. And no one was happier than the two misshapen legs when they heard familiar footsteps one day and the bronze cowlick appeared again.

***

The air was still and heavy with unanswered questions and unspoken truths.

“I…your mum told me…you were here…” After Boy 2 took the last few stairs, the attic suddenly became small. He stood towering over Boy 1, now a whole head taller and broad shouldered with the late summer sun on his skin.

Boy 1 swallowed, his hands clutching the book so tightly his knuckles were white. “… always here.” The emotion in his voice ate the first few words.

“Give me this…” Boy 2 reached out for the book and gently stroked the hand holding it, before opening it and reading aloud the last paragraph:

**_“When I woke up it seemed to me that some snatch of a tune I had known for a long time, I had heard somewhere before but had forgotten, a melody of great sweetness, was coming back to me now. It seemed to me that it had been trying to emerge from my soul all my life, and only now…”*_ **

Boy 2 left the book on the table and caressed one of the curls falling over Boy 1’s eye.

“Why…did you come? Please…don’t torture me.”

“You know why…I wanted…I couldn’t…”

And then nothing mattered anymore. Not the long lonely months spent in solitude or the self-loathing that raised its ugly head every time when Boy 1 dreamed of Boy 2’s lips and his warm citrus scent. Regrets and hidden feelings stepped back to reveal a gentle eagerness to explore and give.  All was forgiven, washed away in a flood of tears, as they wept over each other’s chests. Boy 2 found the willing mouth opening for him and quietly asked for forgiveness between kisses.  Hot promises opened the door to confessions, before Boy 1 uttered a soft and determined “take me…I want you” and surrendered.

Cheesecloth shirt - polo shirt, chinos – shorts, tanned skin – pale skin, beating heart – beating heart. There were no differences, holdbacks and fears as Boy 1 stood in Boy 2’s arms naked and pliant. His skin was the colour of a snow drift caressed by the icy moonlight, yet firm and warm like the virgin heart of a sycamore tree.

Later, when Boy 1 placed his thighs on those broad tanned shoulders and Boy 2 tenderly kissed and licked the soft opening of his body, one thought pulsed across **A** ’s fibres. One thought that shook him from top to bottom as he watched the 2 bodies becoming one on the table and heard Boy 1’s soft whimper as he was claimed and marked with the seed of love. A short and poignant sentence that he repeated to himself many times that day and on each subsequent day when the boys visited the attic to yield to their consuming desire for each other. And whenever Boy 1 wrapped his legs around Boy 2’s waist and bounced against the wall, holding on to the exposed beams for dear life, **A** wanted to shout. The one thing he remembered vividly from an old story about forbidden love, read by Boy 1 in his loneliness and later retold by **T.**  Each time when Boy 1 collapsed on that broad chest, face contorted with pleasure as Boy 2 drank the last drops from his spent cock, the statement came to life. In the sweet moments when Boy 1 was lost for words, tongue dry with salty pledges and cries of ecstasy, it crawled through **A** and gave him shivers. Every time after, when Boy 2 held trembling Boy 1 like the most precious fragile gift in the world, **A** died a little inside, for the feeling was too big and was burning his body. As simple as “come in my mouth”, “hold me”, “I’ll always wait for you” and as devastating as “You are leaving me, aren’t you?”. All spoken in the darkness that framed the agony of Boy 1 and Boy 2’s young love that came to an end the following spring…

The one thing…

**_ How could they rear me from infancy to think you profanation?** _ **

When he started uttering it and **T** finished the sentence, **A** knew the only thing that mattered in his entire life – that his feelings for little crooked **T** were reciprocated…

He was so happy, he couldn’t even care about the lofty disdain in **L** & **E** ’s voices.

***

And then they were alone. No new stories, only lucid memories of the past. The one thing they relived every day now was not in the books though. It was the real story they have seen unfolding before them – growing, blossoming and dying. **A** & **T** sensed that beyond that door and the old brick walls the world has changed dramatically and people have become lonely and withdrawn. The old books were forgotten. They could hear revving cars and distant technology noises outside and for a while, a grating female voice and the sound of tiny feet running in the house. Then arguments, guilt and dissolution. And silence. Deafening, maddening silence.

No one entered the attic for many, many years.

And when someone finally did, their steps were slow and cautious. They saw a veiny hand, shoulders hunched with the pain of a hundred lives and dark curls streaked with some unforgiving grey. The eyes were watery, drowned in some old torments but they were still beautiful sage green. Boy 1, now in his mid-50s, run a hand over the table and stifled a sob. Then he lifted the table and slowly took it with him downstairs to a big bare room. **A** & **T** knew this place. They recognised the empty fireplace with cracked tiles and the old armchair. This is where the restless soul of their creator left this world a long time ago…So it was true.

When did it get so, so cold?

Boy 1 curled in the armchair shivering. Someone shouted on the street: “Merry Christmas!” and then there was laughter and some happy chattering on the pavement before everything went quiet again behind the frosty sycamore tree.

And then there was a knock on the door. “Oh, my mince pies are coming!” Boy 1 thought bitterly as he remembered the old story and closed his eyes, waiting for inevitable. Maureen next door is 88 and light as a feather, when did her steps become so heavy? Boy 1 was surely hallucinating now. His body was losing heat fast, his breathing was slowing down, and he dropped his book. And just as he was drifting out of consciousness, two blue eyes entered the room and hovered above him.

“…Armand?” His voice was almost gone.

“…Tim…”

Oh yes, the boys had names, **A** & **T** realised as Armand took Tim in his arms and placed a kiss on his very cold forehead. The table legs have somehow forgotten to register their names over the years, enraptured by their bittersweet story. The book on the floor was open as Armand read from it through stinging tears.

**“ _Our eyes were on the Other-world, the stars, the gods._**

**_We didn’t keep watch on the world around us._ **

**_And when we eventually lowered our heads and studied the waters closer to home, it was too late.”***_ **

“Not for us. This isn’t our story.” He said through gritted teeth. “Stay with me, Tim…”

It happened very quickly. Armand stood up and got close to the table. One loud crack was followed by another as he broke the table and threw the misshapen legs into the cold mouth of the old fireplace…

Click! And **A** & **T** were finally hugging, engulfed by orange flames. The fire danced around them as all the years of longing found their happy ending in one last loving embrace. This is what it feels like, **A** thought, clinging to **T** as homely warmth filled up the room and crawled over Tim’s figure. He wasn’t shivering anymore, and the blood was returning to his gaunt face. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, saved by **A** & **T** ’s mellow kiss of life that was flowing in his veins now.

“I am dreaming, right?”

“You aren’t, Tim. If you are, you’d better make me young again in your dreams…OK?”

Tim looked at him. Armand’s body had lost its youthful energy but was still as strong as ever. Tim run a finger through his forehead lines just below the silver cowlick and kissed the tiny wrinkles framing his eyes.

“So, I am dead, and this is Heaven?”

Armand lifted Tim and put him on his lap, running a palm over his chest where his beating heart was now quickening its pace.

“You look very much alive…”

“Then tell me you are here to stay…Life never made sense without you…I tried…couldn’t..”

“None of this matters now. I am here. Will you forgive your wandering prince?” A soft kiss landed on the tip of Tim’s nose.

“You are not a real prince.” Tim smiled. “What real prince wants a hunchbacked, sad, wrinkled prune as their princess?”

“I do. And I’ll never want anything else… ** _In a world full of temporary things you are a perpetual_**

 ** _feeling.”****_** Armand whispered and buried his nose among the grey streaks.

And as Tim was falling asleep blissfully on Armand’s broad chest purring “Merry Christmas, my love”, two scarlet sparkles were cavorting above the black chimney…

***

“We are free, **T**. Our job is done.” **A** wanted to scream for joy. “ **T** , my lovely little **T** , there are so many things I want to tell you…”

“I know everything, **A**.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do. We were made from the same tree branch, silly. But some things are only seen by the youngest who view the world from above…”

“And what do you see, my clever, beloved **T**?”

“Let me show you. “

They flew over a giant hall with beautiful crystal droplet chandeliers and brightly lit Christmas trees. “Cheers”, someone said. Smartly dressed ladies sipped gold champagne and admired the decorations. In the middle of the room, there was a lovely polished sycamore table with 4 perfect legs. Mother-of-pearl spoons with caviar were placed neatly on the gold velvet tablecloth boarded with some purple lace.

“ **L** & **E** made it, **T** …”

The smaller sparkle smiled knowingly.

“Even the most talented are vain sometimes, **A**. The furniture maker loved the admiration too much, that’s why he lost his gift.  But each part of a creator’s nature needs to get a good ending at Christmas. Just like every Armand needs a Tim.”

“My wise, sweet-natured **T**. Do you have the answer for everything?”

“Not everything. I had this strange, unexplainable dream recently. We were all people in this bizarre, alien world and we were always unable to find the way to each other…But surely if two table legs can do it, it must be easier for people, no?”

What a foolish dream, **A** thought as both sparkles smiled and merged together in the dusk over the illuminated city. Humans are humans, just passing entries in the life of a table leg. They have no magical powers, just hearts that don’t know how to avoid heartbreak. Come here, **T** and be bound to me for all eternity. No sane table leg would ever dream of being human.

Even at Christmas…

 

*F. Dostoyevsky, White night

** Coleen McCullough, The Thorn Birds. Some of the most powerful simple words written in English, ever!

*** Darren Shan, Bec

****Sanober Khan

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
